


To Bear Witness

by sexuallydisoriented (Cheezalot)



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Reader Insert, Witness Protection!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:54:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheezalot/pseuds/sexuallydisoriented
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader has been in Witness Protection for nine years when her identity is compromised and she is forced to relocated to Quantico under the new identity of a profiler for the BAU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post from imaginingcriminalminds.tumblr.com: "Imagine joining the team under your witness protection name, but Reid recognizes you from an old case file."
> 
> Set right at the start of season 8.

_BAM._

A sharp splintering sound snapped you out of comfortable sleep.

_…patapatapatapata_

_What?_

You rolled over onto your back, elbowing your bed partner in the process. “Ryan, wake up, something’s happening,” you mumbled. A few blinks, and the room was starting to come into focus. Next to you, Ryan stirred softly, but otherwise didn’t move. When you were awake enough to recognize a law enforcement badge directly in front of your face, you pushed at Ryan harder.

There was a crowd of S.W.A.T. officers surrounding your and Ryan’s bed, and they all had very large guns pointed at the two of you. Above their slightly crouched heads was a pair of men in blue bulletproof vests that read FBI, one older and one younger. The younger one had his badge out and in your face while the other pointed a pistol at you. Like the horde of assault rifles wasn’t enough to deter you from doing something stupid.

“My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner with the FBI, this is my colleague SSA Jason Gideon. Ma’am, I need to ask you to please leave the bed now before Ryan wakes up.” The younger FBI agent, _SSA Hotchner_ , spoke in what was no doubt supposed to be a comforting tone.

Panic and confusion were combining quickly enough to make you comply with SSA Hotchner’s command. You slid out of bed as softly as you could, grabbing your sweatshirt from the floor and pulling it on to cover your underwear. Both FBI agents had put their guns and badges away and were motioning for you to go to them, so you did, blind to Ryan’s protests behind you as he was roughly handcuffed by one of the S.W.A.T. agents.

The older agent spoke this time. “Thank you, ma’am, you’ve made the right decision.” He gently, but purposefully, guided you towards another man in a jacket with an insignia you didn’t recognize. “We’re going to send you with Marshal Weston here, and he’s going to get you started into Witness Protection.”

That got your attention. You whipped around to face the FBI agents. “What? Witness Protection? I haven’t witnessed anything!”

Agent Hotchner’s face fell. “Ma’am, are you unaware of Ryan’s activity as an assassin?”

You were stunned almost silent. “An assassin? Are you fucking kidding me?!” You took a step back towards the bed, combing the S.W.A.T. agents with your eyes in an attempt to find Ryan. “Ryan!” Your yell went unanswered. “RYAN! They’re wrong, right? Tell me they’re wrong!” One of the agents began to manhandle Ryan towards the door, and his eyes met yours as he left. The problem was that this wasn’t the man you’d been sleeping next to for five years. He was someone else entirely—his eyes were hard and emotionless, and his face showed nothing close to the range of expressions you were used to seeing. He didn’t say anything, but the words of the agent escorting him out were confirmation enough.

“Ryan Dzubenko, you are under arrest for multiple counts of assassination. You have the right to remain silent…”

The rest of the agent’s speech fell on deaf ears. You were in shock.

Agent Gideon was at your side again. “Ma’am, I understand that this is a lot to take in, but we’re going to need to take you into protective custody right now. Do you have any communication devices on you?”

“No,” you shook your head.

“Excellent. Please, accompany Marshal Weston outside and he and the Marshal’s Service will begin arrangements for your new life.”

* * *

 

All that had happened nine years ago, but you could still remember it as if it had happened yesterday. One second, you were an ordinary Ph.D. student working towards her doctorate in human psychology, and the next you were a completely different person in a completely different city with a completely different look. At least the Marshals had been kind enough to allow you to finish your degree.

You were sitting in your long-term safehouse in Las Vegas, drinking wine and reminiscing, when there was a knock at your door.

No one knocked at your door. At least no one that you really wanted to talk to. You begrudgingly peeled yourself off the couch and went for the door, making a point to keep your wine glass with you so the Marshal would know what he was interrupting.

“Come in, Weston. I assume you don’t have good news.” You greeted the Marshal dryly, as he was used to. Weston marched in with an annoyingly cocky stride, like he wasn’t on the very short list of people you would be very happy to see fall through a black hole.

“Do I ever, ma’am?” At least he was polite enough to call you “ma’am.” “This safehouse and your current identity have been compromised. We’re going to have to move you.”

_Shit. Really?_ You’d been in Vegas for most of your time with the Marshals, and had been assured multiple times that Ryan’s mysterious _associates_ would have no chance of finding you. At this point, you were hoping that they’d given up their search, but, obviously, you had no such luck.

“Alright,” you sighed. “I didn’t like the desert that much anyway,” you deadpanned. Weston rolled his eyes. “Where are we going this time?”

“Quantico, Virginia. You’ll be assigned a new handler when you get there, something to do with a job opening at the FBI that’s going to be part of your cover. Marshals decided it would be simpler to just get you working in the system, I guess.”

You nodded. You could be a shrink for the FBI—how hard could it get? “Alright. Let me put shoes on and then we can get going.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You know I’m not going to miss you, Weston,” you tossed over your shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am.


	2. Chapter 1: Business as Usual

_Stupid job interview…not like they’re going to turn away a protected witness…_

            You adjusted your dress uncomfortably in the lobby of the FBI building in Quantico. Everything had happened too quickly for your tastes; you’d landed in Quantico five days ago and were still trying to get over your jet lag. Your new FBI handler, whose name you hadn’t bothered to remember, had mandated that you not be allowed to purchase wine, much to your dismay. The irrationally angry part of your brain blamed that on your current discomfort.

            “Ma’am, step forward please.” The old, kind-faced security guard waved you forward to the security station. Thankfully, he didn’t ask you to remove your shoes—you were sure that if you tried to remove your pedestrian black heels you would never get them back on comfortably. It felt like your new clothes were as uncomfortable as your new identity. Nothing fit right just yet.

            “Your name and business today please, ma’am,” the guard asked, returning your simple black handbag to you.

            You froze for a moment.

_My name? Shit._

The guard furrowed his brow and tilted his head, opening his mouth to restate the question.

            “Dr. Y/N, I have a job interview on the sixth floor.” You heard the words roll off your tongue with a comfort you didn’t feel. _Thank you, Marshal’s training_ , you thought.

            The guard nodded. “Of course, ma’am. Here is your visitor’s badge; please display it obviously on your clothing at all times while in the building. If you leave for any reason, you will have to come back through security. Good luck with your interview.” He motioned behind him towards large silver doors. “The elevators are just this way.”

            You nodded your thanks and walked off in a way that you hoped suggested to the entire building that you were not up to no good. Thankfully, you made it to the elevators without incident and found yourself at a set of large glass doors shortly thereafter.

            _Behavioral Analysis Unit…Huh. Makes sense._ You hadn’t been told exactly which department you’d be interviewing with, but as you read the door it began to make a lot of sense. Your degrees were in psychology, neuroscience, and finally human psychology, specifically human behavior.

_Not bad, Marshals._

            You pushed through the glass doors, looking around for someone who looked like they were in charge. Before you could get the attention of someone wandering around the bullpen, though, a familiar voice came up behind you.

            “You must be Dr. Y/L/N.”

            You turned around and gaped a bit, unable to hide your surprise. “Agent Hotchner?”

            “Yes. Please control your facial expression, shake my hand, smile, and accompany me to my office.” He extended a hand to you as if nothing was _off_ about this situation.

            You allowed your brief training with the Marshals to take over and blinked your face back to neutrality, offering a cordial smile as you accepted the offered handshake. You tried not to let your eyes wander too much as you accompanied Agent Hotchner to his office on the slightly upper level. It wasn’t until he drew the blinds and shut the door that the atmosphere between the two of you relaxed out of whatever weird falsity he felt compelled to portray out in public.

            “Sorry about that. I’m the only one who knows you’re a protected witness, and it’s in your best interest that it stays that way.” He motioned to a comfortable-looking chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”

            You did, kicking your shoes off and curling your legs underneath you. “So you’re one of my new FBI handlers?” Internally, you were very relieved to know that you weren’t going to have to lie your way through a job interview under an identity and background that you weren’t 100% comfortable in yet.

            “Yes, you could say that. When I heard that your identity in Las Vegas had been compromised, I volunteered to take in your new identity, whoever that may be. It just so happens that we have just lost one of our field agents to a position in Interpol, so your transition in will be seamless. All I need to know from you is that you are comfortable enough with your new identity to essentially lie your way past an elite team of profilers.”

            Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you pulled your ankles even closer to your body as if that would help you hide in the chair. “Um, I don’t know if this was a good idea. You said I’d be working with profilers? They see through lies for a living. Won’t I just be compromised and moving again soon?”

            Agent Hotchner leaned forward on his desk, hands clasped in front of him. “I’m not saying it won’t be hard. In fact, I suspect it will be quite challenging for you. But I’ve read your file, Y/N. I’ve been keeping up with you, and from what I can tell, you used to really enjoy a good challenge.”

            You blinked. He was right. Before you’d gone into Witness Protection, you often sought out challenges and puzzles to solve. “Yes, but—“

            “No buts. Either you’re here or you’re getting back on a plane tomorrow.”

            _Damn._            

            You sighed. Bits of your original personality were seeping back to the forefront, and while the familiarity of it was comforting, there was still a part of you saying how it was a bad idea to lie to human lie detectors.

            However, there was another part of your brain that thought it would be awfully fun, especially if you could get away with it.

            A corner of your mouth twitched up in a devious smile, an expression that you hadn’t worn since before Ryan was arrested. “I’m in, Agent Hotchner.”

            He smiled. “Please. Call me Hotch.”


	3. Chapter 2: Inspired

            You left Hotch’s office still uncomfortable in your shoes, but much more confident with yourself. If he wasn’t accompanying you to a small room containing a round table with a handful of chairs surrounding it, you might have actually laughed out loud. The last time you felt such energy and excitement for a new challenge was…well, it was about nine years ago. It was refreshing, but you knew you’d have to keep an eye on yourself anyway to make sure you didn’t break character. Hotch had run through your new identity with you before leaving his office, but you were still repeating facts about yourself on repeat in your head.

            “We call this room the ‘round table,’ and it’s where we begin most of our cases. Garcia, our technical analyst, presents pertinent details and current victims to us here. We begin preliminary brainstorming and then depart to the jet.”

            “Wait, you guys have your own jet?”

            “Yes, we do. It’s a perk of the job.”

            _Not bad._

“I’d like you to sit in on the case presentation today,” Hotch continued. “We can’t allow you out in the field with us until you’ve completed basic field and firearms training, but the sooner you start getting to know everyone else on the team, the better.”

            You nodded. “Field training? I was under the impression I’d be acting as a therapist, or something along those lines, not a field agent.” The notion of being given a gun sounded like it could be fun, but it also made you incredibly nervous. If you were shooting at someone, wouldn’t it mean they were shooting back?

            “No. You’ll be a profiler like the rest of us, and that involves being in the field. Agent Morgan is a very good teacher, and I have no doubts you’ll be able to join us in the field in about a month. Until then, you’ll stay here and work cases with Garcia. She’s our primary point of contact with Quantico when we’re in the field, and she’s very capable. You’ll work well with her.”

            You sat in one of the chairs around the round table, head swimming with all this new information. “Alright.” You shook your head as if that would clear it. “Alright. When do I meet everyone?”

            Hotch nodded towards the doorway. “Right now. If you feel uncomfortable with any of the questions they ask, just fiddle with your ring and I’ll intervene. Good luck.”

            _Oh boy. Showtime, Y/N, you got this._

You straightened your back and tried to greet everyone who walked in with a smile. They returned your greetings with some confusion—clearly they’d not been informed of your arrival. A very colorful woman sat on your left while a very pretty blonde woman sat on your left. The colorful one extended an ornately decorated hand cheerily.

            “Hi! I’m Penelope Garcia, hired nerd.” Her eyebrows were raised expectantly.

            “Nice to meet you, Garcia. Hotch has told me about you, and it sounds like we’re going to be working together for a while.” You accepted the handshake, doing your best to hold eye contact with her.

            “Really? Well, any time I get first crack at a new person over the dream team here that’s a win for me!” She smiled warmly, but you could tell she was curious.

            Hotch’s voice took everyone’s attention away from you, for which you were thankful. “Good morning, everyone. This is Dr. Y/F/N; she’s going to be working with us for a while. Dr. Y/F/N, this is everyone. Agents Jareau,” the blonde woman next to you waved, “Morgan, Rossi, and Dr. Reid.” People around the table waved as their names were called, and they were all scrutinizing you with practiced eyes. It was all you could do not to squirm under the intense investigation. “You’ll get to know them more later. Right now, we have a case. Garcia?” Hotch seamlessly passed the focus to Garcia and the large screen on the wall.

            “Yes, sir, we’ve got a good one out in Arkansas.” She pressed buttons on a remote but kept her back to the screen as images of oddly posed bodies appeared. “Within the last two weeks, local PD has discovered five bodies, all posed in different, but creepy, ways. They were able to link them because of this carving that’s been left on the right foot of all the victims.”

            Thankfully, the rest of the team was now thoroughly engrossed in the case file and was bouncing ideas around. You allowed yourself to relax in your chair and just watch. Hotch caught your eye across the table, and you nodded slightly to indicate you were okay, for now. He smiled slightly in return, and then turned back to the case.

            _I can make this work. This won’t be too bad._

If you’d looked around the table, you would see Dr. Reid studying you as surreptitiously as he could, face contorted in thought. He could tell something was different about you, but he couldn’t put a finger on it just yet.

            Unfortunately, it was just a matter of time before he did.


	4. Chapter 3: Ride the Lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! Oh my! Look who's being a productive human being.

            Your alarm went of forty minutes late, your coffeemaker was broken, and it was your first day of field training with Morgan.

            What a great start.

            You were grumbling choice words to yourself about the fallibility of technology, trying to find your other shoe, when there was a loud, authoritative knock at your door. You called out for the knocker to give you a second before poking your head under your bed, triumphantly yanking your missing shoe out from under the foot of it.

            Hopping on one foot while trying to tie your shoe, you opened the door. “What?”

            “Good morning to you too, angel.” Morgan’s amused voice came through the doorway, followed by the smell of fresh coffee.

            “Oh, please tell me I’m smelling coffee for two,” you called over your shoulder, pulling a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts from a floor cabinet.

            “Slow down, girl, I got one for you, but only if you stop,” he caught you by the shoulder, “and slow down for a second.”

            You sighed, forcing your feet to stop moving. “Alright. I stopped.” You wiggled your fingers at the coffee cup with your name written on it. “Please?”  
            Morgan laughed. “Here.” There were a few beats of silence as you took a long hit off your drink. “So, before we get started, I have a few background questions.”

            “Mm,” you nodded, mouth full of Pop-Tart. “What do you need to know?” It had been a week and a half since you moved to Virginia, and you were feeling much more confident in your new identity. Not quite one hundred percent yet, but casual interrogations like this one no longer alarmed you.

            “Did you, or do you currently, exercise with any kind of regularity?”

            You shook your head. “Nope.”

            Morgan gestured towards the small coffee table in your kitchen, to which you nodded and sat, bringing one knee up under your chin. “How’s your diet, usually?”

            You snorted. “How’s yours? Cheap coffee and cheaper Chinese takeout from every city in the country can’t be good.”

            “No, it’s not, and don’t get cheeky with me, Y/N. Answer the question.”

            “Um…not bad, I usually don’t just do Pop-Tarts for breakfast. Worst thing I do is drink a lot of wine, when I have the opportunity.” You wiggled your eyebrows jokingly.

            “Understood,” Morgan chuckled. “Today we’re just going to start with some light cardio and test you on some weights at the FBI gym later this afternoon. Tomorrow, we’ll get you started on sidearm procedures and protocol.”

            You swallowed at the mention of firearms. Guns had always made you nervous, even before the incident with Ryan. “Sounds good,” you forced yourself to say. Your new life was pretty good so far, and you were determined to do your best to not let something as small as your discomfort with guns to ruin it.

            Morgan nodded. “Let’s get going, then. I’ve got a little bit of hell to put you through.” 

* * *

 

            “Where are Morgan and Y/N?” JJ slid into her round table seat next to Garcia, breakfast in hand.

            “Oh, they’re doing some physical training field thingy this week. They won’t be back for a while.”

            “Who’s doing field training?” Spencer flopped down next to JJ with an armful of case files.

            “Morgan’s training the new girl. For some reason she’s never done any field training, even though I’m pretty sure you have to do some in order to be qualified to work here. Like they made _me_ do field training, and I’ve been in the field, what, maximum four times in the last eight years?” Garcia gestured wildly with one hand while stirring her coffee with the other. “I don’t know where she came from, but she better be good.”

            “What, you mean you haven’t already run a background check on her?” Spencer joked.

            Garcia nodded energetically. “Oh no, I have! At least, I tried to. All I got was a bunch of ‘classified’ barriers from the Justice Department, and while there are many places I will go in the digital realm, the D.O.J. is not one of them. Last time I hacked them, I got a job, but I don’t think they’ll be as kind with a repeat offence.”

            Spencer nodded, mind racing.

            _So she’s got a classified past which was made so by Justice, meaning she really could have been involved with anything. Could be anything. DEA, OIG, ATF, the Marshals…_

_That’s it! The Marshals!_

Spencer sprung up from his seat, other files forgotten on the table. JJ and Garcia’s conversation stopped abruptly as they both watched him go, confused. “Spence, where are you going?”

            “Old records room, there’s something I need to check out. Tell Hotch I’ll be back as soon as I can!”

            _I knew I recognized her. They changed her hair and she’s lost weight, but it’s still her._

Spencer darted between old file boxes as quickly as he could read the dates on the side.

            _Here it is. 2003, right before I joined the BAU._

            Dust came off the pages in a puff as Spencer flipped through them, glossing over everything but the description of the arrest.

            _“On the morning of October 22 nd, 2003, a tactical raid was made of the suspect’s apartment. Agents Aaron Hotchner and Jason Gideon lead a S.W.A.T. team into the building and apprehended the suspect, Ryan Dzubenko, a.k.a. “Mapa,” on multiple charges of assassination and accessory to murder. Suspect’s significant other, Marie Dobbs, was unaware of Dzubenko’s connections with Ukrainian organized crime and was put into immediate protective custody with the U.S. Marshal’s Service. Her location will not be recorded in this file for security reasons.” _

Satisfied, he flipped the folder shut and replaced the box in its place amongst its brethren. _Weird choice to bring her here into the FBI with people who will eventually figure out that who she is is a lie, if Morgan hasn’t done so already. Something must have happened at her former location._

Still trying to move as fast as his brain was processing, Spencer fell into his desk chair and logged into the FBI mainframe, pulling up a search bar.

            _Search terms: Ryan Dzubenko; Mapa; current status._

* * *

            Somewhere in an undisclosed location, a computer began to beep softly. The man sleeping on the desk in front of the computer grumbled and sat up, rubbing his eyes blearily. As things came into focus, a sense of alarm crept into his gut. He grabbed the radio next to a half-empty vodka bottle and barked into it.

            “Call цар. Someone just searched for Mapa in the FBI database.”

            A tinny voice came back through. “Is it her?”

            “Unknown. I’ll send someone to check it out.”


	5. Chapter 4: Magnificent Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t know if I’ve said this before, but for the sake of this universe, Zugzwang and all related events and characters do not exist. We aren’t going there.
> 
> As suggested by the title, the case referenced is the same as the one in 8x9. There aren't that many details referenced, but I needed a title.
> 
> Also, it’s safe to assume that reader was “hired” in favor of Blake.

            You twisted your face into weird expressions in hopes that it would help your ears pop as the plane descended into Quantico. Unfortunately, it did nothing but make JJ laugh. You scowled playfully in reply before continuing to open and close your mouth in a strange approximation of a yawn, which worked a little bit.

            “You know, Y/N, the process we know as ‘ear popping’ is just the equalization of pressure between your outer and inner ear. Sound waves are transmitted from the outer to the inner ear through the eardrum, but in order for the waves to pass through effectively, the pressure on both sides has to be relatively equal. This is why if your ears pop after a while of not popping, everything sounds louder than you remember. See, usually, your body just equalizes the pressure on its own through a system that begins with a small tube running down the side of your throat known as the Eustachian tube, named for the sixteenth-century anatomist Bartolomeo Eustachi, and—“

            “As much as I appreciate the scientific explanation,” you projected over Spencer, “it’s not going to make my ears pop any faster.” You continued to grimace as the pressure in your ears continued to build the closer the plane got to the ground. Once the tires touched the tarmac, you managed a real yawn, which relieved some of the pressure.

            Once the plane jerked to a stop, Hotch addressed everyone. “Good work, guys. It’s late,”

            “…or early, depending how you look at it,” Morgan muttered.

            “…so go home and try to get some sleep. I’ve got to pick Jack up from school early tomorrow, so don’t worry about coming in until after lunch.” Hotch raised his voice to speak over Morgan, but you could hear the small smile in his words.

            You pushed your hair behind your ears and gathered up your bag, happy to be back on solid ground and going home.

            _Home. Huh._

You’d only been in Quantico for two months, which felt like a longer time than it was. It took you more than a year to be fully comfortable in your safehouse in Las Vegas,but in retrospect you realized that was probably because you had just had your life turned inside out. Every so often you thought about where Ryan was, but if you were being completely honest with yourself, you really didn’t care _that_ much. Occasionally, you figured you should care, right? The guy had ruined your life and you had no idea that he was into things that would result in your retreat into hiding. You hadn’t spoken to your mother in over nine years because of him. It often crossed your mind what she would have been like if she’d been part of the trial. She always liked Ryan for what seemed like good reasons at the time. He was charismatic, sweet, and knew just what to say to people to get them to like him. Now, you realized that he said just the right things to be charming without actually giving your mother any information about who he was or what he did.

            _“So, Ryan! Marie hasn’t told me a lot about you,” she said pointedly. “What do you do for a living?”_

_“Right down to business, I see.” Ryan smiled widely. “I’m a personnel manager for an international corporation.”_

Personnel manager. What a politically correct word for “hitman.”

            In a way, you were grateful that he strategically spared your mother from even the slightest insinuation that he was involved with a massive organized crime organization based out of Ukraine.

            Although, he’d done the same thing to you and you hated him for it. There wasn’t a week that went by where you didn’t berate yourself for not seeing any signs of deception. You were, at the time, actively studying human behavior in laboratory and field settings and were doing a spectacular job in your studies, but you never even suspected that Ryan could be hiding something from you. He even used the classic ruse of “It’s for work” whenever he was gone for a week or more. Technically, you concluded, that wasn’t a lie. He was on a business trip of sorts. It still didn’t lessen the blow when you realized that you were in a _very_ intimate relationship with a man who wasn’t at all who you thought he was.      

            Ryan’s trial was, and still is, the longest and hardest ordeal you’d ever had to endure. It was a long, drawn-out two-month affair that wrecked havoc with your mind. You were in that courtroom every day, and some of the other testimonies and evidence presented blew your mind. They had pictures of Ryan’s “suspected victims,” and they were, in your eyes, perfect kills. You had no idea how the government managed to link them back to him. It didn’t help your understanding that you began to shut everything out once the prosecutor had described Ryan’s “suspected modus operandi.”

            _“As seen in photos A1 through A17, Mr. Dzubenko has a very particular way of carrying out his contracts. In circumstances when it would often be easier to poison his victims or shoot from a distance, he prefers to wait until an appropriate moment presents itself before infiltrating the area and,” the stiff-backed federal prosecutor held up a bloody photograph for dramatic effect, “carving into the victim’s carotid, brachial, hepatic, and femoral arteries. The victims bleed out rapidly and likely feel little pain, but it makes one hell of a mess. It is Mr. Dzubenko’s stealth and escapist skills that allowed him to come and go from each scene without being spotted or captured, and also resulted in his being nicknamed ‘Mapa,’ or, in English, ‘Phantom.’”_

Now, nine years later, you were still making daily efforts to keep what had happened from affecting you. Your assumed identity and entirely false life was an unshakeable reminder that you were not where you were supposed to be, but you desperately wanted the memories to stop resurfacing every day. Thankfully, you no longer had nightmares about what you’d seen in the courtroom. That had taken six years. Based on that timeline, you figured you had another three before you should start expecting the intrusive thoughts to stop.

            You easily swung your car around into your diagonal parking spot in front of your apartment building, piling your bags onto your back and into your arms as you trudged up the steps to your second-floor flat. Your mind was fuzzy not only from the mental exhaustion of the case, but from physical exhaustion as well. You hadn’t quite acclimated to the physical demands of field missions yet, but thanks to Morgan it wasn’t going badly.

            Flipping the light on, you allowed your bags to fall in a disorganized pile next to the door while you dropped your keys into a small, decorative bowl you kept on a table near the door. But this time, you missed the bowl.

            _Weird. It’s always in the same place. Maybe I brushed it when I left and didn’t notice?_

Satisfied with that answer, you trudged into the kitchen in search of cheez-it crackers and wine. You were pouring yourself a glass of Chianti when you noticed that the cabinets above your stove all had their doors open to varying degrees.

            Alarmed, you quickly moved back to your bags and retrieved your gun. _That I definitely didn’t do. Not even by accident. _The Marshals in Vegas had insisted that you always leave all cabinet doors completely shut at all times in case someone planted surveillance equipment behind the doors. If the cabinet was shut, they may be able to get audio, but no video, therefore it was less likely they’d be able to identify you and compromise you. That was a rule you ardently stuck to and even followed behind your (admittedly sparse) houseguests to make sure was followed. Something was wrong.

            You opted to camp in your kitchen until you could get someone from the Bureau over. Gun in hand and finger on the trigger, you pulled out your phone and pressed the speed dial attached to Hotch’s number. It rang three times, your anxiety increasing with each unanswered ring, before he picked up.

            “Y/N? Everything okay?”

            “Someone’s been in my flat. All the cabinets are open and items on a table have been moved.”

            You heard the familiar mechanical clicking of a gun being loaded before Hotch responded. “Don’t move. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes and I’m bringing CSU. Try not to touch anything in case they left fingerprints.”

            “Okay,” you nodded, forcing your voice not to shake even though you were unable to do anything about your hand. “Thanks.”

            Just as Hotch hung up, there was a short knock at the door. If it had been any louder, you suspected that you would have yelped loudly. Instead, you reflexively fell into a defensive position with your gun in front of you as you approached the door slowly.

            “Who’s there?” you called, hoping it was just a neighbor.

            “It’s, um, it’s me, Spencer.”

            Instantly, you relaxed, thankful that he was here but simultaneously a bit confused. “One sec.” You pulled out your phone and quickly sent a text to Hotch telling him to wait a block away because Spencer had shown up. He responded with an affirmative, but a thinly veiled warning to get rid of him.

            You swung the door open with as friendly an expression you could muster. “What’s up, Spence?”

            He stood holding a faded case file under one arm and a thoughtful expression on his face. “Hello, Marie.”


	6. Chapter 5: Anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out longer than I expected at 2580 words. Prepare yourselves.

           “Hello, Marie.”

            _Shit._

            _What??_

You took your gun out from the waistband of your pants, allowing it to rest non-threateningly in your hand at your side. Even so, Spencer’s eyes widened slightly when he noticed it.

            “I think you better come in.”

            “Yeah, I think so.”

            “You motioned with your gun hand for him to come in. “Don’t touch anything,” you warned. He nodded and stood in the middle of your kitchen, moving the case file so you could see that he also had his revolver on him. You leaned against a countertop, keeping him in your field of vision while you pulled your phone back out and dialed Hotch, putting him on speaker.

            “Did you get rid of Reid? We’re five minutes out.”

            You rubbed your forehead with the back of your hand, tired and stressed. “No. He’s got a case file in his hands and he called me Marie, so I figured it was best to let him in and not let him leave until we figure this out.”

            You could hear the _oh, shit_ cross Hotch’s mind in the silence that followed. “Good. Don’t tell him anything until I get there. CSU is going to wait on the street until the three of us talk.”

            “Hotch, bring someone with a bug sweeper first. If someone did leave a listening or video device, we need to get rid of it.”

            “Right. We’re pulling up now, Y/N. Don’t worry.”

            You hung up and addressed Spencer. “How’d you find out? The arrest happened before you joined the BAU.”

            “I read the case file,” he explained. “I was bored one weekend and decided to study old cases that Gideon had worked, and yours was one of them. You were in a picture taken from a S.W.A.T. officer’s helmet camera, and it just took me a few days to place you.”

            “Why wait so long to do this, then?”

            Spencer recoiled a bit, biting his lip. “I think that should wait until Hotch gets up here.”

            You nodded. “Fair enough.”

            Moments later, there was another knock at the door before it swung open, revealing Hotch and an older woman in a CSU jacket. She held a small handheld device that was making a low buzzing sound. You nodded to her, gesturing widely to indicate she was free to look around. She silently got to work, running the device over every inch of your apartment. While she worked, you stood with your arms crossed, gun still in hand, trying to avoid eye contact with Hotch and Spencer while you gathered your thoughts.

            An indeterminate number of tense minutes later, the CSU woman returned with good news. “All clear. Nothing was left.”

            Hotch thanked her and asked her to wait in the van with the others. She looked like she wanted to object, presumably because she thought the three of you would corrupt evidence, but clearly thought better of it when she saw the intensity of Hotch’s expression.

            Once she’d left and the door was closed, the awkward tension dissipated. “Reid, I expect you have a very good reason for why you know Y/N’s real name.”

            Spencer swallowed, fiddling with the folder in his hands. “Um, yes, I do. I recognized her from a photo in an old case file, one that you worked with Gideon, and I got curious.”

            “Reid, she’s been in witness protection for nine years, and her information is _highly_ classified. You don’t just ‘get curious’ and stumble upon her identity.”

            “Okay, I called Emily and asked her to look in the Interpol database for me. But don’t blame her, I told her it was for a case.” You didn’t recognize the name, but Spencer’s haste to protect Emily made you think she must have been important to them at some point.

            Hotch sighed, clearly frustrated. “Alright. We need to figure out what to do from here. There’s been a clear breach of your security, and someone is going to need to inform Justice, but we need to be on the same page before that happens.”

            You stuffed your gun back into your pants. “Shouldn’t we let them know immediately? Every Marshal I’ve ever spoken with was adamant that no matter what I call them when something goes wrong.”

            “Not this time.” Hotch was more serious than you’d ever seen him. “As far as Justice is concerned, I’m your primary handler. If I call them a few hours from now saying I just heard about this, they’ll ask less questions than if you do.”

            _Smart._ “Alright.” You picked up your wine glass and the bottle and sat down at your small kitchen table. “Let’s get started, then.”

            They joined you, purposefully not commenting on the wine bottle. Spencer cleared his throat and flipped open the old file, fiddling with the papers and showing a photo to Hotch. “Y/N is in the background of this photo. It was taken from the helmet camera of one of the S.W.A.T. agents involved in the raid. It was taken from the feed because Dzubenko, the suspect, looked right into the camera and it was great for facial recognition software to confirm his identity. But if you look here,” he pointed to one of the top corners of the photo, “you can also clearly make out Y/N’s face in the background. She’s wearing a Marshal’s hooded jacket, but she hadn’t put the hood on.”

            You leaned over to study the picture. Sure enough, there was your old face with a blank expression, staring at Ryan with your arms wrapped around your middle protectively.

            “This photo needs to be destroyed. Make sure it doesn’t get back into archives.”

            “Spencer, I assume you read some version of my life story when you went looking in Interpol, right?” Hotch didn’t object when you cut him off. “So you know where I’ve been for nine years?” Spencer nodded. “Good, we don’t have to go through that then.” Your next question sat on the tip of your tongue, but you needed a long drink from your wine glass before it formed into words. “Did you get any information on—” Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself to finish the thought. “—on Ryan? Do you know where he is?”

            “I did. Are you sure you want to know?”

            _No. I really don’t. It’s taken me this long to get adjusted, and I don’t want to screw that up…but I’m curious._

You shuffled uncomfortably in your seat. “No, never mind. I shouldn’t know,” you said quietly. “Am I in danger? Is the ring he was involved with still active?”

            Reid bit his lip again. “Yes, they’re still active. Emily’s agents in Ukraine aren’t actively working against them, but there’s chatter.” He kept his voice soft. “Y/N, they have agents in the States.”

            Your stomach fell and you could feel it show on your face. “They’re here.” You nodded, more for your benefit than theirs. A sense of near-paralyzing fear was brewing in your veins. “They’re here. They found me. They could have rigged something to explode when I came home today. They could have killed me today.” Despite your best efforts, you felt yourself starting to panic.

            “No, Y/N, don’t worry. There’s no evidence to suggest they have anything to gain by killing you.” Cautiously, Reid reached out and covered one of your hands with his own. The contact grounded you a bit and stopped your panic from growing any further. “Emily agreed to personally keep an eye out for any significant movement, either in Ukraine or the States, and she’s going to contact me the moment anything changes.”

            _Good. Interpol is watching them._

            “Wait, if Interpol thinks that they’re not interested in me, who the hell do they think came in here and moved everything around? It doesn’t matter that, um, that they didn’t bug anything, but they were here! Hotch, they were in my house, and you didn’t know about it, Interpol didn’t know about it, nobody knew about it!” You pulled your hand back from Spencer in favor of refilling your wine glass and promptly draining it again.

            Hotch’s intense seriousness hadn’t dissipated. “No, you’re right. Our security measures were insufficient and you were put in clear danger. When we talk to Justice tomorrow, I’m going to insist that the Marshals upgrade your security and begin actively investigating all of Ryan’s known contacts. In the meantime, the Marshals are going to insist on moving you. It’s reasonable to assume that someone may be watching you, but don’t worry. Right now, we have the advantage.”

            You snorted. “WE have the advantage?? They know where I live and I don’t even know who they are!” You pulled your feet up under you and tried to ball up on your small kitchen chair.

            “Y/N, think. Your blinds and curtains are shut and only the kitchen light is on. From the outside, it looks like we’ve brought up a bug sweeper and then sent her away ten minutes later. No one else in law enforcement jackets has come up here yet. So far as any observer can tell, you’re just concerned that someone broke in.”

            _Oh. Yeah, he’s right._

            “They’re going to expect us to move you, therefore they’ll be watching every exit of this building waiting for you to leave. We can use this to divert them. We’re going to use someone in the Bureau who has similar physical characteristics and we’re going to use her as a diversion. She’ll go to a safe house in Richmond, at which point she’ll remove her disguise and leave as a Marshal. Meanwhile, you’re going to disguise yourself as a CSU agent and simply walk out the front door. We’ll find a volunteer in the Bureau to house you for a few months until we secure a different location in D.C. to be a new safehouse for you.”

            You paused, processing everything he’d just said. Something stuck out to you. “Wait, I don’t have to move states? I can stay here?”

            Hotch nodded. “If we were to move you somewhere else so soon after your move here, it may raise suspicions with agents who don’t know who you are.” He looked pointedly at Spencer, who looked away and fiddled with the edge of a piece of paper. “You’ll be kept here, even if the Marshals object.”

            “Thank you.” You really didn’t want to move so soon after getting comfortable in Quantico.

            “Reid, I don’t need to stress how imperative it is that you never reveal what you know to anyone. If you tell other people, the risk of compromising’s Y/N’s identity as Y/N increases. If you tell Marshals, or anyone in the Bureau, that you are also aware of who she is, you risk raising red flags in the system that could alert the Ukrainians as to her new location.”

            Spencer nodded. “I understand, Hotch, I’m not going to put her at risk.” He sounded irritated, but you couldn’t tell if it was at himself or Hotch. “She can stay with me if there are no Marshals close enough. It’s the least I can do for stirring this up.”

            You nodded appreciatively while Hotch pulled out his phone. “This is SSA Hotchner with the BAU, I need a counter surveillance team to Dr. Spencer Reid’s apartment, and a CSU team to Dr. Y/N’s residence. Inform CSU that Artemis has returned. Repeat, inform CSU that Artemis has returned. Thank you.” He reached across the table and removed the old photograph from the file, folding it up and hiding it in an inside pocket of his jacket. “No one talks to the Marshals or Justice until you hear from me. Reid, you and I are going to stay here until CSU finishes their sweep. Y/N, you will pack two bags once they leave. One for you, and one for your double. Stuff hers with newspaper, or something similar.”

            “Artemis has returned?”

            “That’s the code for the protocol we put in place when you moved here. When an authorized individual calls for Artemis, a specially trained CSU team is dispatched, and one of the members is trained to serve as your double.”

            “Mm. Interesting choice of names. I like it.” With the humor of that code, you began to relax a little. Now that there was a clear plan of action in place, you were feeling better. And, more importantly, less inclined to vomit. “I’m going to go pack, if you don’t mind.”

            “Of course,” Hotch dismissed you, waiting until you had closed your bedroom door behind you before addressing Reid. “What did you find out about Dzubenko’s recent activity?”

            Somewhat surprised, Reid began fiddling with a discarded paper clip. “He hasn’t had any recent activity, actually, he was killed in prison 2 years after his incarceration. The weird thing is that his known contacts and allies don’t seem to have retaliated. Against anyone. See, Ukrainians in these circles have very strong senses of loyalty to one another, and it’s not uncommon to see family members or close allies of one person go on an intense revenge spree. With a person so influential and well known as Dzubenko, we should have seen at least one of his allies drop off the map and then his enemies either mysteriously disappear or turn up brutally mutilated. That never happened.”

            “Is it possible that whoever took on this responsibility decided to wait and start hunting now?”

            Reid nodded. “It’s very possible. In fact, I consider it highly likely. It’s never been recorded to happen before, but based on the nature of the bonds between organized crime members I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s done it before.”

            “I see.”

            “She’s really in trouble, isn’t she?”

            “I think so. But we don’t know for sure, so we’re just going to do our best to keep her safe.”

            “Right.”

* * *

 

_Elsewhere…_

            “Sir, have you been made aware of the situation in Quantico?”

            “Yes. I am dissatisfied with the results. I ordered her capture and transport here at once, and you were unable to deliver.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “You’re lucky I don’t shoot you where you stand. You will make another assault in three weeks, and this time you will take нести with you.”

            “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

            “Plan better. Do not disappoint me again.”

* * *

 

            There was a polite knock at the door before it swung open, followed by a call of “CSU for Artemis.”

            “In here,” you called back. “Artemis hasn’t left the building.” You poked your head out of your bedroom.

            A woman roughly your height led a gaggle of people in navy jackets with “CSU” in big yellow letters across the back into your apartment, allowing them to disperse as they saw fit. “Check everything,” she yelled after them. “Dust everything, take samples of everything, don’t leave anything behind.” The gaggle made a collective, bored sound of affirmation. Unamused, the woman made her way back to you, extending a gloved hand. “Good morning, ma’am. You may refer to me by my code name, Athena. I will be your body double as we move from this residence to your new safehouse.”

            _No sense of humor in this one._ You thought the code names were pretty funny, but this lady was even drier than Hotch. _Maybe they’d be friends if she wasn’t about to go undercover._

            You crossed your arms over your chest. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo boy, that was a big one. Thanks for bearing with me :) next chapter will be lighter, promise!
> 
> Also, I just want to say that this has gotten so much more support and love than I ever expected. Hugs for all of you :)


	7. Chapter 6: Next to Normal

You pounded your fist on Spencer’s bedroom door. “Come on, we have to get going!”

Silence.

You took another bite of your muffin and yelled again through the mouthful. “We’re gonna be late for briefing if you don’t get out here. I’m driving today, come on!”

Despite only living on his couch for a week, you had already gotten pretty comfortable with Spencer compared to how the two of you were before he confronted you at your apartment. You tended to stay out of each other’s hair—whenever he was on to something and just wandered around muttering to himself, you dodged him when needed. If you were having a bad day and were feeling overwhelmed, or were having flashbacks, he would make you a cup of tea and then leave you alone. Comfortable silence was not an unfamiliar thing, and it suited you just fine.

Just as you raised your fist to bang on the door again, it swung open and Spencer almost barreled into you, but recoiled just in time to avoid a collision. “Sorry, I was up all night studying a new publication on nuclear fission. Did you know that—“

“Spence, we don’t have time, and I wouldn’t understand anything that follows that statement anyway. I made you a cup of sugar with a little coffee in there too, just grab it and let’s get going.”

“Oh, right, yeah, sorry.” He brushed past you and took the mug you left out, tossing you your keys.

_Finally,_ you thought, slightly exasperated but smiling nonetheless.

* * *

 

“…so I’m on the phone with this guy, insisting that we’re going to need _way_ more Jello shots than that—”

“As interesting as that story sounds, Garcia, I’m going to have to interrupt.” Rossi approached the group in the bullpen tentatively, as if he didn’t want to know the purpose for those Jello shots but feared he might if he let Garcia continue the story of JJ’s post-wedding bachelorette party much longer. “I’ve been asked to give a lecture at a college criminology class today, and they just told me they want me to bring a colleague. Who wants it?”

Morgan held his hands up defensively. “I went with you last time, Rossi, I’m exempt.”

“You know, I’ve been working on my delivery of my philosophy jokes, maybe this class would be more receptive!” Spencer offered excitedly.

Rossi shook his head. “I’m not taking you anywhere except recruitment lectures.” He looked between you and JJ. “Either of you ladies interested?”

“Sure, I’ll go,” you said. “Someone with a doctorate in their name will make you look better, anyway,” you joked.

“Sure, kid, like _I_ need help making myself look good.” Rossi winked, making everyone laugh. “I’m driving. We’ll leave in half an hour.”

Six hours, and _so_ many student questions later, you were flopping down on Reid’s couch, shaking your hair out of the bun you’d twisted it into in hopes it would make you look more official. It seemed to work—only one student questioned where you’d gotten your doctorate from, and was silent when you comfortably rattled off “Stanford, under Drs. Bhat, Griffith, and Vildavski. My dissertation was on paranoia and how sufferers make relationships with others.” You’d actually done most of your work at UC-Berkley and had done your dissertation on neurofeedback, a type of biofeedback that could hypothetically be used to “re-train” brains with disorders such as ADHD. While the topic itself was fascinating and interesting all on its own, you secretly missed being able to throw around words like “hemoencephalography.” You knew that you and Rossi hadn’t made any FBI converts out of the criminology students, but at least you’d managed to keep their interest for 90 minutes.

As a reward for managing to not bite off any heads after particularly stupid questions, you grabbed a box of cheez-its from the kitchen, stripped off your “professional,” yet uncomfortable, silk blouse and heels, and fell back on the couch, enjoying the cheesy crunch of your reward crackers.

_Shoot, I don’t live here alone._ You checked your watch, relieved when it read 3:30. _I’ve got a few hours before Spencer comes home. I’ll get up and get decent before then._

Halfway through the box, you felt your eyelids getting heavy, and before you could register that you should probably get up and not fall asleep right now, your eyes were falling securely shut and you were sound asleep, snack box forgotten on your stomach.

* * *

 

            Someone was poking you. Maybe. You could be imagining it. The only way to tell for sure was to wake up the rest of the way and you didn’t really want to do that.

            Okay, someone was definitely poking you, and they were doing it harder now that you weren’t budging. Annoyed, you swatted in a random direction, hoping to get the culprit.

            “Y/N, I’m over here.” Spencer sounded amused.

            You grumbled in response.

            “Get up, Y/N, it’s six.”

            “What, at night?”

            “Yes,” he laughed, “six at night.”

            “Oh. Oops.” You forced your eyes open and sat up slowly, instinctively catching the box of cheez-its as it started to fall. “Sorry,” you gestured at your torso in apology for discarding your shirt and failing to replace it.

            Spencer moved from his poking assault position at your feet towards the kitchen, rummaging in some cabinets. “You’re fine, don’t worry about it. Nice tattoo, by the way.”

            _Oh, yeah, he hasn’t seen that before._ You had a brightly colored swarm of butterflies tattooed on your ribs that stopped just above your hip. “Thanks.” You scooped up your old Marshal-issued Stanford sweatshirt from the floor and pulled it on.

            “Why butterflies? Traditionally, they’re a symbol of rebirth or metamorphosis, which makes me think it’s somehow related to your past lives.”

            Spencer had taken to referring to your previous identities as “past lives,” which made you feel like you were a cat working its way through nine lives. You didn’t particularly like it, but not enough to ask him to stop. “No, actually, I got it before Marie died.” This story was one of the few things you hadn’t had to alter when you “died” the first time and moved to Vegas. You curled up with your feet under you and enjoyed the feeling of not having to access a lie, as you’d gotten so accustomed to. “In one of my undergraduate English classes, we had a guest poet come in and teach us about spoken word poetry. I hated the unit, but there was something he said in answer to a question about stage fright that stuck with me and inspired that piece.”

            “Must have been pretty profound in order to inspire a tattoo design.”

            “Yeah, I thought so. He said that everyone feels butterflies in their stomach when they go up to perform, or do a speech, or whatever. The key is to make those butterflies fly in formation. I think about that every time I do something in front of an audience.”

            “Mm. That’s a good way to think of it, actually. I’ve never heard it phrased like that.” Spencer’s tone was soft, almost intimate, as he considered what you’d said.

            “Yeah.” You allowed the silence that fell to be comfortable as you reached back into the cheez-it box for a handful of crackers. Once you felt relaxed and more like yourself, you stood up and scooped up your car keys. “I’m gonna go get some Chinese, you want anything?”

            “I’m fine, thanks.” Before you made it out the door, he called across the room again. “Y/N, was that story real, or fed to you by the Marshals?”

            You turned and tucked your hair behind your ears. “It’s real,” you affirmed. “One of the few things I can talk about and not lie while I’m doing it, actually.”

            “Interesting.”

            “Why?”

            “I couldn’t tell.”

            _Oh._ Any response you could have come up with was stopped in your throat. _I’m lying to them every day, and he knows it._

            You desperately wanted to join Spencer in the kitchen and spill everything you were feeling about having to lie to stay safe, and, in all likelihood, stay alive. Instead, your training took over and you instead replied with “Good. I’m doing it right, then” in far colder a tone than you would have liked, but knew was necessary. With that, you turned and left the apartment, biting your tongue to stave off dangerous emotions that were threatening to boil over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The speaker referenced in the reader’s English class is based on a real person, and that quote is real. His name is Josephus III and he works out of Greensboro, NC, and here’s his website if you wanna check him out. http://www.josephusiii.com/main.htm
> 
> Again, extra special thanks to all of you contributing to the love I'm seeing on this piece! If I could I would bake you all pies and have a party, but alas all I can do is digitally hug you :)


	8. Chapter 7: Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the mysterious villains who are currently faceless and mostly nameless, so we’re going to spend some more time with them. This is going to be short, and hopefully there will be a longer, reader-centric one to follow shortly ☺ again, thanks to all of you who have read, are reading, and are sticking with me on this fun adventure.

            “Sir, I must apologize. I have failed you again.”

            “What have you done this time?” цар’s accented voice was cold and inexpressive, causing his subordinate to repress a fearful cringe.

            She drew a tense breath and released it in hopes it would still her voice. “Another attempt was made on the target in Quantico. I was able to place a surveillance device in Dr. Reid’s apartment, but the target was…not present. She was not retrieved as ordered, sir.”

            Цар sighed deeply. “This is your second offense.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “I assume you are unaware of what this means for you.”

            “No, sir. None of us know what anyone else has suffered as punishment. That is the order of things, as you have enforced.” She nodded respectfully, slightly relieved when she believed she felt the tension in the room dissolve a bit.

            “Mm. Indeed.” Цар clasped his hands behind his back, left hand tensing in preparation to draw his weapon. “I am truly sorry to lose a previously valuable asset.” Before she could respond, he pulled a pistol from its resting place at his side and shot her quickly, bullet landing directly between her eyes.

            As she fell to the ground and two higher-ranked individuals came to remove her body and her blood, цар made a show of inspecting his pistol nonchalantly, running the remaining two fingers of his right hand across the barrel.

            “How would you like her disposed of, sir?”

            “Your choice. I trust your expertise, ніщо.”

            “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

            Цар hummed as they left the room, quietly discussing their options. He peered at his right hand sadly and resisted the urge to try to move fingers that were no longer there. All that remained where his pointer and middle fingers used to be were mangled, badly healed scars. Many years ago, in the company of individuals he had long annihilated, цар’s fingers had been dislocated where they met the hand, pulled away from the hand, and then removed.

            At the thought of past company, his thoughts turned to Mapa, or Ryan, as his woman knew him.

            _Sleep peacefully, my son. Those who knew you will soon be eliminated. Your woman is proving more elusive than I expected, but I will get her, and then I will join you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, little short one! Fret not. The moment I hit the "publish" button, I began working on the next chapter. Hopefully the time difference won't be so long this time.
> 
> Also, I didn’t want to put this in the top notes, but due to a series of real life circumstances, I may not be able to write as much as I have been up to this point. I'm going to make every effort to publish every few days, but we'll see. A combination of personal and academic circumstances have arisen, and I’m currently studying abroad in the UK which makes everything a little more complicated than it would have been if I were at home. Thank y’all for your patience and support of this piece, and I love you all ☺


	9. Chapter 8: Occam's Razor

           It struck you very early one morning as you sat on Spencer’s couch and waited for your tea to cool enough to be drinkable. You were flipping through a random news site on your laptop, simply enjoying the silence of the city both outside and inside. And then suddenly, it hit you.

            _I’m falling for him. Just a little bit, yeah, but it’s definitely there._

Your initial reaction was repulsion. You’d conditioned yourself to avoid becoming attracted to anyone when Marie had “died,” and a strange side effect of that conditioning was repulsion at the slightest feeling of any sort of attraction. You’d always supposed it was a good thing, so you didn’t do anything to counteract it. It passed after a moment, which left you to the nasty task of sorting through your own emotions.

            _First of all, no. This can’t happen. I shouldn’t even feel anything for him. I shouldn’t feel anything for anyone! I’ve been here for not even six months—I hardly know him! I hardly know any of them, and besides, you never know who someone’s going to turn out to actually be, and it just turns into a shitshow! Every time! Every fucking time, something goes wrong, or someone fucks up, or—_

Ignoring how it slightly burned your tongue, you took a long drink of your tea and tried to calm your mind back down to something softer than internal mayhem. You shut your eyes and embraced the warmth radiating from the cup, sheltering yourself in darkness.

            _I accept it. I’ve got…a crush on Spencer, and I accept that. I’m also never going to act on it, nor am I going to let it affect my composure. Flimsy composure is a flimsy identity is a relocation or death._

You repeated the last part to yourself a few times and allowed the repetitiveness to soothe you as you drank the rest of your not-quite-scalding tea. There was still a warm pot in the kitchen, so you rose from the couch and went to fill your cup. Your anxious, silent pilgrimage was interrupted by the door to Spencer’s room swinging open. He acknowledged you with a soft hum of greeting before plugging in the coffeemaker and poking it when it didn’t spring to life.

            In the wake of your recent revelation, you felt a bit awkward, but forced it down when it occurred to you that Spencer would have no idea why you were acting so strangely as he was, in fact, not a mind reader. You took a second to compose yourself and reboot; you bit your tongue, straightened your back, stretched your neck out, and then turned to face him. Unfortunately, whatever witty greeting you were going to come up with died on your tongue when you saw him. It seemed he’d not bothered to change out of the clothes he slept in, and was wearing a pair of sweatpants with a school logo you couldn’t quite decipher as well as a plain white t-shirt. What got your tongue was his forearms. Specifically, a patch of scarred skin on the inside of his elbow. Even though your eyes had been adjusted to the dark, the bright lights of the coffeemaker were annoyingly blinding in the otherwise pitch-black room. It took you a few seconds of squinting and rapid blinking to clear the spots from your vision before you could figure out what you were looking at.

            _Oh._

            Spencer noticed you staring as he continued to tinker aimlessly with the coffeemaker.

            _Hypodermic needles. Wonder what his vice was._

You took a breath to ask, but he cut you off, voice harsh but still soft, as if he didn’t want to pollute the otherwise empty room.

            “Dilaudid. It’s been three hundred, eighty-five days since I had a…craving.”

            With that, he retreated into his room and emerged a few moments later wearing an FBI sweatshirt. You quickly realized the point of that exchange.

            _He wanted me to see that. He wanted to tell me, but he didn’t want to use too many words…I can appreciate that._

You blew on your tea and turned to ball back up on the couch. “Thank you,” you murmured as you passed him, truly thankful that he trusted you with something so personal after knowing you for so short a time. Spencer didn’t come to join you on the couch; instead, once he’d gotten his mug of coffee, he retreated back to his room. You still felt warm because of your admittedly short interaction.

            _I’ve been here for a fraction of the time I spent in Vegas, but I’ve managed to become closer with him and the rest of the team than I ever was with anyone in Vegas._

You couldn’t tell if that was a good thing. So much of your Marshal training was telling you to back away from close relationships, as they could only be to your detriment in the long run, but you felt a strange sense of security knowing that your job, where you spent most, if not all, of your time was with a very effective and secure government agency. Instead of being protected by proxy, you were now spending most of your time surrounded by people who were trustworthy and had your back no matter what. It was comforting, and you worried if it was making you soft. According to your bi-weekly meeting with Hotch, it wasn’t and everything was fine, so far as anyone knew. You couldn’t help feeling the temptation to run away anyway. The web of new relationships and friendships you’d woven yourself into was far more intricate than anything you’d been a part of in the last decade, and it alarmed you. It was new, it was potentially dangerous, and it was scary.

            Nevertheless, you liked it. You liked _them_ , and you were going to have to suck it up and trust those whose job it was to protect you to keep you safe. It was either that or lose your new family, and despite your subliminal inclinations to up and leave, you felt a stronger desire to stay and get to know them and let them get to know your new identity.

* * *

 

            As the sun began to creep up into the sky, you heard what sounded like a bug flying into a window. It sounded like an angry buzzing, but it was November in New Jersey. There weren’t that many bugs, let alone ones that were angry and could fly. Nevertheless, you inspected all the windows and found nothing. You stood in the middle of the room and closed your eyes, trying to focus on the sound and get more information about it. You couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but the more you listened, the more it began to sound electronic and not like a real bug.

            “SPENCER!”

            He poked his head out. “What?” He sounded confused. You hardly ever summoned one another, and you yelled even less.

            You waved him over. “Come here. It sounds like there’s a bug, but I checked the windows and there’s nothing there. Also it’s way too constant to be a bug, so I don’t know what it is. I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

            “Y/N, if you want me to listen to it, you’re going to need to stop talking,” he said with a smile in his voice. He listened for a moment before suddenly assuming a very serious expression. “No, I don’t hear it.” His voice was normal, but his face remained alarmingly serious as he gestured for you not to speak. “You know, it might be nonpulsatile tinnitus, a sort of ringing in the ears that results from either aging or auditory trauma, such as loud noises.” He took your phone from your pocket, where it always was, and began typing rapidly. “I bet you’ve heard something like this before? Maybe on a different pitch?” He gave you the phone back, and you quickly read before responding.

            “Oh, yeah, you know, you’re right.” You forced your voice to maintain what would be normal timbre and expression for an exchange like this. “It was lower last time, so I thought it might be something in the room.” The screen read: _Malfunctioning surveillance device. Audio only. Act normal._ On the next line were the instructions _Text Hotch in tacetus._

“In tacetus” was a phrase you and Spencer had agreed to use to instruct the other to contact someone without raising alarm. In this instance, it meant that you would multitask; you allowed your brain to act on instinct and respond as needed as Spencer kept elaborating on the various causes and types of tinnitus, but your fingers tapped out a simple message to Hotch.

            _Garcia wants to have a “family” dinner party at Reid’s as soon as we all have time. You in?_

That was from a code language you’d half-developed with Hotch. It was pretty well understood that “as soon as we all have time” meant “ASAP,” and the rest of it was cover so if it was intercepted, it wouldn’t seem too inflammatory. Thankfully, Hotch responded quickly. You briefly wondered if he ever slept.

            _Of course. Want me to bring Jack?_

You were pretty sure that “bringing Jack” entailed either a CSU or S.W.A.T. team. You weren’t positive which one.

            _I’ll ask Garcia and get back to you. She’s still trying to figure out how many people we can fit in Reid’s tiny place._

_Sounds good. Thanks for letting me know._

            You looked up from your phone in time to see Reid rooting around behind a small painting that you didn’t know pulled away from the wall like that. Were things not so tense (and surveilled), you would have asked. Moments later, he pulled his hand out triumphantly, holding a tiny black surveillance bug with an almost-imperceptible antenna sticking out from the top.

            Upon seeing the bug, you felt long-buried rage become un-buried. You took it from Spencer’s fingers and began yelling at it.

            “Are you having fun with this, you son of a bitch?! ‘Cause it seems to me like all you’re doing is fucking with me at this point! You wanted to scare me at my old place? Congratulations. I’m fucking _terrified_ of you, and I don’t even know who you are!!”

            When you paused for breath, Spencer cautiously covered your hand with his, taking the bug back. “Y/N, I turned it off as soon as I found it.”

            “What?” You were breathing hard and your bottom lip was trembling, partially due to fear and partially due to anger.

            “I thought you might do something like that, so I turned it off, okay? It was already malfunctioning, so there’s a chance they didn’t hear any of what happened since you heard the buzzing.” He put a hand on your shoulder comfortingly, and in response you buried your face in his chest and let yourself cry.

            Spencer flinched a bit, but forced himself not to move as you twisted the sides of his sweatshirt into your fists. Still not really sure what to do with you, he opted to wrap an arm around you and run his other hand through your hair. People did that in movies, so it must work at least a little, right?

            You wanted to scream, to cry, to punch a hole in a wall, _something,_ but as the tears fell down your face quietly, you realized you didn’t have the energy to. Someone was following you, and now Spencer too, and you’d never been this scared in your life. A very small part of your brain was yelling at you to fall back on your limited FBI training, but another part was shouting back that it wouldn’t do any good. You couldn’t protect yourself from the kind of people Ryan was involved with, and any attempt you made to do so would probably result in your premature death. All you could do was hope for the best. And, at the moment, cry quietly into Spencer’s sweatshirt.

            When you thought you could speak coherently, you attempted to, not realizing that it would be muffled. “I’m sorry.”

            Spencer sighed and stilled the hand that was combing through your hair. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “I’m scared too. I get it.” He quickly pressed a kiss to the top of your head before reaching down to extricate his FBI sweatshirt from your fists. “We’re going to figure something out, and we’re going to try not to die, okay?”

            You couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, yeah. Not dying is good.”

            He brushed away a stray tear from your cheek. “Y/N, they bugged my apartment in a place that I didn’t think anyone knew about. We’ve gotta do this together now, because they’re probably aware of me and are after me as well.”

            “I know. I’m so sorry you’re in trouble too, Spence, I never wanted any of you to get wrapped up in the residual shit that Ryan left.”

            “But here I am, so we’re going to have to work together. We’re going to do our best, and Hotch and the Bureau are going to help us out as best they can, alright?”

            You nodded, biting your tongue to clear your head. “Alright. We’re gonna do something.”

            A loud knock at the door forced you to get yourself under control. “That’s Hotch. You ready?” he asked.

            “Yeah. I guess.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Another (lengthy) update so soon! I locked myself in my flat and cranked out some school writing...some of this writing...so we've got some more to read! Yay! 
> 
> As always, super mega huge hugs to everyone who is reading, has read, and will read this piece :)


	10. Chapter 9: No Way Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This chapter begins with our dear Ukrainian villains.

“Sir! They’ve returned from Quantico, sir.” A short, younger man came scurrying into цар’s office. “Good news this time, sir.”

            Цар took his feet from their resting place on his desk, intrigued. “Good news?”

            “Yes, sir. Well, sort of, sir.” He paused as he started to trip over his own tongue.

            “Speak, boy!” цар barked. “What happened?”

            “A hostage was captured, sir. However, it was not the particular hostage you ordered. I do think you will be pleased, sir.”

            “You mean that we have made three attempts on this woman and she has evaded us every time??” цар shot up from his desk chair and spat in the young man’s face. “This is unacceptable!”

            After a moment of relentlessly staring his subordinate down, цар relaxed a bit. “Who have you brought? Bring them in.”

            The young man nodded and scurried out of the room as respectfully as he could. He called out in Ukrainian into the small hallway before waving in two larger men who dragged a limp body behind them. They stopped before цар’s desk and pulled their prisoner’s head back so the dim light would reveal their identity.

            “Mm.” цар stepped out from behind his desk to inspect the prisoner. He brushed their hair away from their face with the last two fingers on his right hand. “I know this face.”

            “Yes, sir, we’ve had surveillance on him for a short time now.”

            Цар smiled. “Yes. Yes we have.”

            The prisoner began to stir, and squinted against the light in his face.

            “Welcome, Dr. Reid. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Цар turned and sat behind his desk again. “Take him to a room and keep him there until I send for him. He’s not her, but he’s very important to her. He will prove useful. Dismissed.”

* * *

 

You flopped back into your desk chair into the bullpen, happy with the small bag of lunch you carried with you. There was a Portuguese chicken restaurant that had opened within walking distance from the office, and you were very excited to try it.

            You were happily munching through a chicken sandwich when Morgan came and sat on your desk, stealing a fry in the process. “Hey, girl, you seen Spencer recently?”

            “Nope.” You spoke through a mouthful of sandwich. “Should I have?” You hadn’t really seen him much this morning, and you assumed he’d gone off to the office lounge to eat lunch before you left. Surprisingly, the two of you had managed to keep your living arrangements a secret from the rest of the team. You started driving separate cars into the office after an analyst from Garcia’s floor noticed you together in the parking garage. Anytime Garcia and JJ insisted on a girl’s night out, you always insisted back that it started at one of their houses. If the team wanted to have a family dinner and asked you to host, you always protested that Rossi’s mansion was nicer than your apartment and besides, you couldn’t cook worth shit anyway.

            Morgan shook his head. “I don’t know.” He picked another fry out of your bag. “I don’t think I’ve seen him today, and since he seems to be pretty fond of you, I thought you might know where he is.” With a shrug, he slid off your desk. “Just let me know if you see him, okay?”

            In favor of speaking through the large bite of chicken you’d just taken, you brandished a thumbs-up at Morgan as he retreated. The more you thought about it, the more you realized Morgan was right. You’d left Spencer’s apartment early this morning; you’d decided that it was a better idea to leave your paperwork overnight and get up early to do it instead of forcing yourself to stay up all night to work on it. As you darted out the door, somewhat well-rested and showered, Spencer was talking to himself quietly and flipping through a few different encyclopedias. You hadn’t bothered to say anything as you left—he would notice you were gone eventually, and if he needed to, he’d call.

            Unfortunately, it was lunchtime and you still had no confirmation he’d ever come into work, and your instincts were now telling you it was time to worry. You sent him a quick text, hoping for a characteristically slow response.

            _Hey, Morgan and I are worried that we haven’t seen you yet. Everything okay?_

* * *

 

_Elsewhere…_

            At цар’s insistence, Dr. Reid’s belongings had been brought to him, and were now scattered across цар’s desk. He was inspecting Reid’s FBI badge when a cell phone buzzed. The pattern of the buzzing let цар know that it wasn’t his, so it must have been Reid’s. He unlocked it easily and pulled up the text message that caused it to buzz.

            _Ah,_ цар thought. _Your woman is getting worried, Dr. Reid._ He locked the phone and set it down again, pensive. _Let’s help her worry some more, shall we?_

            He picked up an old two-way radio and spoke into it. “Bring me Dr. Reid. His usefulness as bait is about to be tested.


	11. Chapter 10: The Longest Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh me oh my. Have we gotten to the final chapter? Methinks we have!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: description of the aftermath of being shot in the head. THERE IS NO major character death.

            Garcia came running into the bullpen faster than you’d ever seen her move. As she approached, you noticed that she’d kicked off her outrageously high shoes, which you assumed enabled her to run that fast.

            “Guys! Guys, get in here, something’s wrong!” She waved frantically for everyone to get up from their tables or leave their offices and follow her to her cave. As you got closer, you saw tear tracks on her cheeks, and your stomach fell.

            “Calm down, baby girl; tell us what happened.” Morgan put an arm around her shoulders and led her, and the rest of you, down to her cave almost at the speed she’d barreled in at.

            Garcia wiped her eyes and sat down wordlessly, breathing quickly. She clicked a few times on one of her screens and rolled to the side as an image popped up. “I got this about thirty seconds ago, and then I came and got you guys. All I’ve done is make sure that it’s not, um, that it’s not malware, which it isn’t.”

            Everyone leaned in around the screen, taking a second to inspect the dark, slightly pixelated photo. Once you identified it, you recoiled from the group and bit your lip, trying to keep your expression neutral.

            _Oh my god. They got him._

“Is that…Spencer?” Rossi was squinting confusedly at the photo. You didn’t have any active cases at the moment, nor did you know of any past bad guys who would have been out to get Spencer. To everyone else, it looked like Spencer was tied up crucifix-style, sans nails, in a dark, unrecognizable room. To you, it looked like the Ukrainians had made an attempt to kidnap you and gotten him instead. Or, they’d come to kill you, found you missing, and opted to abduct your roommate instead. Either way, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was your fault. If you’d stayed home instead of leaving to do paperwork, maybe you could have helped defend him. Or, maybe they would have just grabbed you and left Spencer alone.

            Hotch noticed your grim expression and stepped in. “Yes. That’s Spencer.” He sounded like he was barely biting back some strong emotion. “Conference room, now. Garcia, bring a laptop and see if you can find out where the video came from. Contact Emily for help and tell her that Olympus has fallen. She’ll know what it means. Everyone else,” he sighed and looked at you. “You need to be briefed.”

* * *

 

            “…and now, here I am.” You finished your story with a sigh and sat back down in your conference room chair, pulling your feet up under you and hugging your ankles.

            Everyone was silent for a moment. Hotch stood at the edge of the room like an animal watching its children play. Garcia was the first to react. She’d stopped working on her computer about ten minutes into your story and had been watching you with varying expressions of horror, pity, and sorrow as you explained how you’d gone from Ryan’s oblivious girlfriend to Las Vegas to Quantico. Once you finished and sat back down, she got up and silently hugged you, sniffling into your shoulder.

            “What’s our next step?” JJ was blinking away frightened tears as she spoke.

            Hotch pushed off the wall and addressed the room. “The Ukrainians have Reid, so our top priority is, obviously, to get him back. First step is to find out where he is. Garcia, keep working and see what you can find out. Y/N and Dave, I want you two on the phone with Emily and anyone you can wake up at Interpol to get all relevant information pertaining to Ukrainian organized crime. JJ, you and I are going to work with the photo that was sent and see if we can identify where it might have come from.”

* * *

 

            Everything after that was a blur. You’d spoken with Emily at Interpol, and if you weren’t on autopilot you would have been more interested in finding out more about her. Through information gathered from her contacts, combined with the research Reid had been doing, you were now sneaking into a poorly lit, single-story warehouse outside of D.C. with your gun and flashlight held in front of you. You got the feeling that any other time, you wouldn’t be allowed on the raid, but Hotch and Morgan knew they had no chance of talking you out of it so they didn’t even try. So here you were, desperately trying to avoid panicking as you kept your eyes trained on the back of JJ’s FBI vest as she led you through the floor. Things were quiet so far, but you felt that was worse than being greeted with a firefight. Right now you could hardly keep your thoughts from wandering to worst-case scenarios of what you were going to find, whenever you found it. All you’d found were empty rooms, occasionally with a cardboard box or two against the wall.

            Eventually, _finally_ , you briefly thought, you came to a room with a large skylight and two support beams near the center. The light from the skylight fell on a stout man with his hands clasped behind his back who stood next to Spencer, still tied up as if he were crucified. The man stepped closer as you an JJ entered the room, prompting you to bark “FBI! Don’t move!” and aim your gun square at his chest.

            He raised his hands in surrender, and you noticed that his right hand only had a thumb and the last two fingers left on it. Beside you, JJ spoke softly into her mic. “Hotch, we found them. Northwest corner, large room with a skylight.”

            You hardly registered that backup was on the way. So far as you knew, this was the man that had been terrorizing and stalking you since you’d moved to the D.C. area, and all you could feel was rage.

            He spoke before you could find words. “You must be Maria.” His voice was thick with a Slavic accent. “Pleasure to meet you.”

            “It’s Y/N now,” you spat.

            JJ began to circle around closer to Reid, keeping her eyes on the man in the middle the whole way. When she got too close for his liking, he flicked his right wrist, ejecting two blades up into the spaces where his fingers used to be and held them against Spencer’s chest, right over his heart. “Ah ah, Jennifer, not too close now.” He never broke eye contact with you.

            JJ froze, not making any indication she’d back up, but not approaching either. “What do you want? We didn’t come here to kill you, and we’re happy to leave with you still breathing, but if you so much as move I’m going to put you down.”

            The man laughed a dry laugh before turning to face JJ. “I have no doubts you can shoot me faster than I can run these blades through this man’s heart, but I have no intention of attempting such a thing just yet.” He turned his head to meet your eyes again. “Not until I exact penance from your friend.”

            You bit your lip hard before speaking. “Penance? What did I ever do to you? I don’t even know who you are!”

            “I am Ryan’s father!” His small body shook with an outburst of rage. “You were an accomplice in his imprisonment!”

            As he spoke, he began to move away from Reid and towards you, talking with both hands. You kept your gun up, but inched towards him slowly, ignoring JJ’s cautionary glares. “An _accomplice?_ If anything, I was one of Ryan’s victims! He used me as cover so he wouldn’t seem as alone as he really was!”

            You could tell that the man’s rage was building with every step he took. “Ungrateful bitch! You should feel honored that such a powerful man took liking to you and took you into his life!” With that last word, he raised his bladed hand to swing at you.

            _BANG._

You reflexively spun back and to the side to dodge the swing, but instead you dodged him falling to the ground in front of you. A quick glance up allowed you to register Morgan standing at an entrance to the room, gun raised, while Hotch ran to help JJ get Spencer down. You turned your attention back to the immobile, sputtering pile of Ukrainian at your feet. He was bleeding from a wound in his neck, below the carotid, but deep enough to keep him down. You knelt with one knee on his chest, the other on the ground, and stuck the barrel of your gun against his forehead, leaning in close.

            “If Ryan was so powerful, how could I have put him away, hm? How could he have been _caught_ if he’s so powerful as you think he is?” You paused between each question, enjoying the anger and fear in the man’s eyes.

            Softly and strained, he managed to answer. “My son was more powerful in life than anyone else you will ever meet.”

            _In life…he’s dead?_

“Kill me, if you wish. I have failed to kill you, thus I have failed to avenge my son. I will have to answer to him, but at least I will be with him.”

            “He’s dead?” You couldn’t help yourself from asking. You had to know.

            The man laughed beneath you. “Of course he is dead. He was dead as soon as he entered prison.”

            _Excellent._

“Good. Go join him.” Before he could respond, you pulled your trigger and sent a bullet through his head, effectively ending his life.

            His chest still beneath your knee, you felt yourself freeze with your gun still pressed against his head, now covering a hole. It was over. A decade after you’d been woken up by a pair of FBI agents and a S.W.A.T. team, you’d ended it.

            Someone entered your field of vision as they squatted in front of you, ignoring the blood and brain that was oozing onto the floor. “Hey, Y/N.” It was Morgan. “Y/N, stand up, okay?”

            You blinked a few times before looking up at him. “It’s over.”

            Morgan smiled. “Yeah it is, girl, you did it.” He offered you a hand. “Stand up with me, okay? We just untied someone who’s asking for you.”

            _Oh, right._

You pushed yourself up from the ground and wiped your gun on your pants as you turned around. Sure enough, they’d gotten Spencer down from his sacrificial position and had woken him up. You tried to walk over, but found your legs reluctant to move.

            _I did it._ That was all you could think. _It’s over. I did it. No more running._

            Morgan noticed you looking quizzically at your own legs and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, speaking softly. “Walking’s the easy part. Right, left, right, left, then repeat.”

            “Right.” This was taking entirely too much effort, but at the moment you didn’t really care. You got moving, and that was the important part.

            Spencer saw you approaching slowly and smiled widely, although you could tell he was exhausted. You crumpled down next to him and hugged him tightly, smiling when he buried his face in your neck and sighed.

            “I’d hug you back, but my appendages are a little numb,” he chuckled.

            You sat back and brushed his hair out of his face. “Did they hurt you?”

            “No, he just tied me up after a day or so, I think. Honestly, I don’t really care how long I’ve been down here, I just want to go home.”

            You nodded. “Me too, Spence,” you murmured.

            JJ squatted down and put one of Spencer’s arms over her shoulder. “We got an ambulance outside that’s going to take you to the hospital, and _then_ you can go home.” She effectively shut down any protest Spencer was going to make about how he was fine by using her best “mom” voice. Spencer knew better to challenge her when she was worried and being protective.

            “I’ll see you at home, Spencer, go to the hospital.” You were pretty sure your attempt at reassuring him didn’t work, but before you could worry much more about it, JJ and Morgan were helping him out of the building, leaving you with Hotch and the corpse of Ryan’s father. Still in shock, you opted to stay where you were and just stare into space.

            Hotch came to stand next to you and allowed you your silence for a few minutes before speaking. “You know, there’s going to be a lot of paperwork to do when we get back to the office.”

            You looked at him incredulously for a moment before bursting out laughing. “I just killed a man and you’re talking about _paperwork?_ ”

            Despite his best efforts to keep his “boss face” on, Hotch smiled. “It’s not funny, Y/N, there’s going to be a whole process involved in declassifying you, not to mention the forms we’ll have to do regarding this whole debacle.”

            Your laughter dwindled into a wide, honest smile. “I’m going to be declassified. I like that. Can I keep this name? I think it suits me.”

            Hotch nodded, still grinning. “You can definitely keep this name. It’ll be good to have you a real person again.”

            You nodded and started for the exit, Hotch walking alongside you. “Agreed.”

            _It’s going to be very nice._

You jumped a bit as a thought hit you. You pulled your phone from its place in your back pocket and dialed Garcia’s number, half expecting her to be on the line with Morgan.

            “Hey, love! How are you?” She sounded relieved to hear from you, but also happy, so she’d spoken to Morgan already.

            “I am _great_ ,” you said enthusiastically. “I get to keep my name and I get to be declassified soon, so life is pretty good.”

            Garcia started clapping excitedly. “Yay! I’m so happy for you, Y/N, and I know we’re all happy you put an end to all that nastiness.”

            “Thanks, Garcia.” You paused to let your emotions settle. “Once we get home and Spencer’s discharged, I was thinking we could all get together, order some pizza and drink a couple bottles of wine? What do you think?”

            “Oh, absolutely, my darling! We may all be exhausted but we are not too exhausted to eat, drink, and be merry with our newly freed friend!” She dropped her tone from excited to serious. “Although, you may want to clear enough floor-slash-couch space for everyone to pass out on. ‘Cause seriously, we’re all exhausted.”

            You laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m only expecting everyone to be awake long enough to eat. I just want to spend some time with you guys.”

            “I shall send out word, my darling, and we will be at yours and the good doctor’s apartment before the sun goes down. Garcia out.”

            You smiled to yourself as your phone slid back into its home.

            _Downtime with them will be nice. I don’t have to hide, I don’t have to lie, I can be…me. I can be me again. That’s going to take some getting used to, but it’s gotta be easier than the other way around._

_Huh. I get to be me again._

_How exciting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constant and unending love for everyone who has read, is reading, and will read. You all make this process worth doing. 
> 
> Shoutout to everyone who clicks that little kudos button, has bookmarked, and has commented!
> 
> Lastly, another great big hug to all of you again! I enjoyed writing this piece, and I hope you enjoyed reading it.


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